


Mongoose & Mamushi's Christmas Eve

by LadyFelixTristis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Christmas Fluff, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Fluff, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a House Husband, M/M, Making Out, Memories, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Slice of Life, Will Graham Goes Antiquing, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFelixTristis/pseuds/LadyFelixTristis
Summary: Will tries to find Hannibal the perfect Christmas gift.He succeeds.Or: a holiday love letter to antique malls and besotted cannibals.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 135





	Mongoose & Mamushi's Christmas Eve

Will Graham runs nimble fingers along the smooth shaft of a fly rod. An Orvis bamboo piece, rich with patina, probably 40 or 50 years old. Beautiful shape. It feels good under his hands. 

He thinks about the handsome old Shakespeare reel he has at home. One that’s been patiently waiting for the right rod. He’s already looking forward to bringing the pair of them out to the river with him the next clear day and he hasn’t even committed to buying the Orvis. Then again, who is he kidding?  
  
He discovered it snug in a travel tube, unceremoniously wedged behind a shelf full of china, porcelain dolls, a baseball glove, and an old silver-faced Pioneer receiver. The owner of this stall in the antique mall clearly doesn’t specialize. A brief scan of the booth’s other contents suggests that the rod is the only fishing-related item present. And it is priced at $25. 

Which is ludicrous. Any fly fisherman with experience finding and buying his own equipment would pay several times that amount for this beauty. Booths without specialization aren’t as nice to browse as better curated ones, but they often have the lowest prices.

He doesn’t _technically_ need another fishing rod. But there is no talking himself out of the purchase. If he deprives himself of it, he has no doubt that he will spend months or more regretting the loss.

He tucks the tube under his arm, and continues down the row. 

In another booth, a small, polished wooden chest catches his eye. It sits next to a canvas purse studded in rhinestones and sequins in a 1960s big-eyed cat design. On its other side sits a piggy bank with a cork nose, its body glazed pink and blue. 

The purse reminds him of an old lady he knew as a kid. _Was_ she old? She was probably forty, younger than he is now, but she had seemed old to him back then. She was one of those unapologetically flashy women who loved glitter, bold patterns, and inventive makeup, and took her love of those things one step too far to be entirely agreeable to normal people. He’d always liked her. She was an outsider, a tendency he’d seen in himself even then. But she clearly embraced her differences and didn’t give a damn what the gossips around town thought of her. When had he finally learned that lesson? 

Was it just before he pulled Hannibal off of a cliff into cold, crashing waves? Was it after they survived, and he realized there was no going back?

The piggy bank reminds him of the Vergers. It doesn’t look anything like a murderous attack pig if he’s honest. But he wants to smash it a little bit. _I’m a wanted man,_ he thinks. _Can’t draw attention to myself by smashing adorable pottery._

He wonders sometimes how he can hold a grudge against people like the Vergers, whose treatment of him was unremarkable compared to Hannibal’s treatment of him. How is it that he no longer feels any resentment for the man who framed and imprisoned him, nearly gutted him, and tried to saw open his skull and eat his brain? 

_Among other things._

Thankfully, it has been a very long time since he believed he was sane, so he chalks his hypocrisy up to his _unusual mind_ and doesn’t consider the matter for long. 

The wooden chest that originally caught his eye reminds him of one he had as a kid. And, yes. As he gently pries open the lid he is unsurprised to see a magnifying glass with a clamp at its base, tiny scissors, strings of various colors, several hooks, and an assortment of feathers. A basic beginner’s fly-tying kit. Probably a gift many decades ago to a kid who had been far less interested in the pursuit than Will had turned out to be, judging from the plentiful supplies still present. It must have been safely tucked away in an attic or closet for years and years. 

He thinks of Abigail. He thinks of the magnifying glass and fly tying gear he bought for her that first Christmas after meeting Hannibal, after he had truly registered the fact that she would be spending her first Christmas alone. He too had once been newly orphaned. He a student in university who pretended it didn’t bother him to spend the holiday alone. The university had tried to hold some events for students staying on campus over the holidays, but he had been too socially awkward to participate. Besides, nothing could have filled the hole in him that the loss of his papa had left. The man hadn’t been perfect. But their tiny family had been a loving one.

At the time he had spotted the fly tying gear back then, he had been thinking about how miserable the holidays in a psychiatric inpatient facility would be. The clinical environment was far from warm. And they would necessarily err on the side of “Happy Holidays” over anything with religious connotations. Which was fine. Just impersonal, and another reminder for anyone used to celebrating a specific winter holiday that they were not home.

Will shies away from this type of nostalgia. He usually wants to leave the past in the past. But he takes a moment to think of Abigail, and about how she hadn’t deserved her fate at the hands of her father and then Hannibal.

“We are her fathers now,” Hannibal had said. _I need you to care about her so I can use her as a pawn in the game I’m playing with you,_ was what he had meant. _I need to be able to punish you with her destruction._

Will touches the chest, the polished wood barely cool under his fingers, and smiles wistfully but with brows furrowed slightly. There is a thought niggling at him, a worry he hasn’t yet defined in his own mind. He moves on.

Several stalls down, a black knit hat and scarf catch his eye. They are arranged artfully on a half-mannequin, which is also for sale. The hat and scarf, labeled as pure alpaca, are so very soft under his fingers. He might rub them against his face if they belonged to him. He wonders how they would feel against his scars.

They make him think of Alana. The old Alana, the way she was before life and Hannibal smashed her rose colored glasses. He can imagine her warmly wrapped in them in heavy snow, cheeks rosy from cold and wind, lips smiling and pink, her soulful eyes watching the dogs playing. A foolish fantasy from another life. 

Alana is long gone from his world, but he can treasure his memories of who she used to be. 

And soft things are not only for women. These soft things will be a gift to himself. He removes them from the display and holds them, gently compressing and expanding the knitted yarn with the tightening and loosening of his hand. The sensation is satisfying. He will wait until he is alone to feel them against his face. He might not be sane, but he prefers to appear that way.

He moves on.

The person he is actually hoping to find a gift for is, of course, Hannibal. Doctor Lecter, as he often thinks of him. He has always enjoyed the shape that Hannibal’s title and surname take in his mouth, so he still uses them sometimes, even though anything resembling a professional relationship between them ended many years ago. Even though Hannibal hasn’t been a practicing physician of any kind since they arrived in Canada. Even though his name here in Canada has nothing to do with Lecter. The words feel good in his mind, and in his mouth. The tick-tock of the -tor and -ter, Doc-tor Lec-ter, 1-2-3-4, like a clock ticking away the seconds of his existence. 

His entire existence feels like a countdown, sometimes. 

Will wanders for more than half an hour. He picks up metal statuettes of historical figures and Greek gods and nude women. Most are overdone replicas of the most well-known sculptures in the world, cast in miniature from copper or brass or white metal alloys. There is one, however, that he can imagine Hannibal truly appreciating. Despite its relatively small size it is heavy enough that he would need to find a cart to have any hope of moving it himself. It must be solid bronze. 

The bronze portrays a majestic lion, jaws slightly parted to show sharp teeth, mane windswept and unkempt. He has such energy that he seems almost alive, ready to rip out the throat of the first prey to offend him. 

When he finally checks the price ticket, he can’t help the “Oof” that escapes his throat. Hannibal is essentially the only person in his life and he cares for him deeply. But $2,000 is not a price he is prepared to spend on a Christmas gift for anybody. They may have money to spare between the foreign bank accounts and investments, and Hannibal might happily spend that amount on a single Burberry coat, but inside _he’s_ still the same old Will Graham. 

Besides, he doesn’t have nearly that much in his wallet. Maybe he’ll come back for it for their anniversary, if he can get past the cost. 

He moves on.

He rubs hideously patterned silk neck ties between his thumb and forefinger, the sound produced reminiscent of the walks he likes to take alone in freshly fallen snow. It is an indulgence he allows himself before letting the dogs out to tear through it in their fun. When he walks alone, the sounds are crisp and close. The _swish-swish_ of dragging his boots through the powder. The _crunch_ of smashing the powder into ice beneath his foot. He considers buying one of the ties solely to trigger the sense memory, but they are hideous and he doesn’t want Hannibal to _find and wear_ the thing. He’ll just steal one of Hannibal’s, if he wants to hear the sound in the future. This time of year, all he has to do is step outside. 

He moves on.

He hefts an ancient-looking Griswold cast iron skillet in his free hand, coal black from patina and seasoning. It is so heavy that lifting it with one hand is a slight struggle. It reminds him of a neighbor he and his papa had, outside of New Orleans, one of the places they’d stayed longest. Mrs. Harmon, a very kind woman with a very sweet little dachshund, a lot of stories to tell, and no grandchildren of her own to tell them to. She fed him dinner every night his papa had to work late, and cooked everything in old cast iron like this. Her cornbread had been the absolute best.

Her skillets and pots, when not in use, hung from hooks that were solidly attached to a board that ran the length of the kitchen just above his eye level. He remembers being curious about the writing on the bottoms. Some just had numbers - 8, 13, 26. Some had names, like Wagner, Favorite, and Griswold. He remembers liking the way Griswold’s name was nestled inside a plus sign, surrounded by a zero. And he remembers wondering what kind of place Erie, PA was, to be the origin of something so utilitarian. Something almost brutal, easily made a weapon. 

Will grew up a poor southern boy. He didn’t extend his wings until adulthood. By now, he has visited many towns across the states for conferences and cases. He has traveled some of the world with Hannibal, some alone. However, he still hasn’t visited Erie, Pennsylvania. 

He thinks the Griswold skillet might do as Hannibal’s gift, until he rests it on a nearby Formica table and feels the skillet wobble, ever so slightly. It’s just barely warped. Many wouldn’t mind such a small defect, but he thinks Hannibal might. Maybe he’ll ask him, if he thinks of it. For now, the skillet stays in the booth.

He moves on.

Peeking out from between an ancient-looking Seth Thomas mantel clock and a Fiestaware ball pitcher in cobalt blue, a small painting catches his eye. An old oil, judging from the crackling of the paint. Something painted in the style of a Waterhouse mermaid, but not quite as technically good. Still, her silver scales shine, and her copper hair flows across her face and around her body. She looks as if she’s been caught off guard, resting there on the smoothly polished stones of her beach. 

He gives in and retrieves a basket from one of the stacks placed strategically along the row. He places the painting in the basket, cushioned by the alpaca hat and scarf. The Orvis pole in its tube stays under his arm.

The painting may or may not be for Hannibal. He has not yet decided. There’s something about the mermaid that calls to him, makes him selfish. Maybe it’s that she’s half beautiful woman and half fish. He does enjoy both. So does Hannibal.

He moves on.

Nothing he sees seems quite right to gift to his partner in all things. Partner. His husband? They’ve never had a ceremony, though they usually introduce themselves as a married couple. They have rings. Freddie Lounds still markets them as Murder Husbands. 

They might owe her a visit. They’re practically in her neighborhood. Comparatively.

No matter what Will gifts him, Hannibal will be gracious and polite, as is his way. He could give him a cheap bottle of wine and be praised for it. Well, maybe not cheap. And indulged is perhaps a better word than praised.

Perhaps, he thinks, he should once again embrace Hannibal’s propensity for indulging Will’s whims. He’ll find something strange or funny. Hannibal has a sense of humor, even if it does frequently take the form of bad puns. The antique mall is absolutely full of ridiculous objects. If he can’t find something Hannibal will play along with, he isn’t trying hard enough. 

He briefly considers choosing an ugly Christmas sweater from a rack of them for the man. But even he, with his dark tendencies and occasionally sadistic sense of humor, is not that cruel. When a man is forced to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, that man has the right and duty to choose it for himself. 

While browsing yet another booth, his eyes reluctantly stumble upon a decorative plate with a huge snowflake on a bed of blue in the middle, surrounded by a lot of shiny gold. The gold is bordered with colors and patterns that badly clash. The red is more of a pink and the green a nauseating almost-mint. 

It is all alone on the top shelf, propped on a display stand, as if it is the most important thing. The crowning jewel of the booth.

It’s hideous.

It’s also expensive looking. Something he can imagine in Hannibal’s old Baltimore house, though it might have been too gaudy even for a man who wore brightly colored 3-piece plaid suits with paisley ties on a regular basis. 

Hannibal’s fashion choices are by necessity somewhat subdued, these days. Canada is too close to the States for them to look too much like their old selves, even if the media frenzy has largely died down over the years.

Will carefully picks the plate up off of its display stand and examines the herd of animals and people framed against the golden backdrop, marching around the edges. There are camels, elephants, birds, horses, and assorted others, some in pairs. The dog, goat, and leopard are leashed. Are they less obedient than the zebra, elephant, deer, and sheep? Must be Noah’s Ark, but they weren’t able to fit two of every kind into the design. 

Flipping it over, he sees that the entire plate is covered in information, laid out in a circular pattern. In the center, the plate holds the names _Rosenthal Studio-Line_ and _Versace_. 

Will is no expert, but isn’t Versace supposed to be one of _those_ designers? The ones people pay a lot of money for because they’re iconic or something? How did they drop the ball on this thing?

Maybe he’s just too working class at heart to comprehend the brilliance of the design. Living in relative luxury with Hannibal has not improved his tastes enough. He does, after all, still rail against Hannibal’s adjustments to his comfortable wardrobe, though Hannibal has successfully talked him into switching to Pendleton’s solid colored shirts the same cut, texture, and thickness of the plaids he was used to. Same feel. A bit less lumberjack and “classic Will Graham” _(“wanted by the FBI”)_ in presentation. 

It occurs to Will that Hannibal might actually really like this plate. Oh, god. He really might. 

Alternatively, he might hate it and feel disappointment that Will thinks something so ugly is to his taste.

Or he might get the joke and play along. 

Hannibal is so hard to figure out sometimes. And that is saying a lot, considering who Will is and what he is known for. Known for, aside from helping a cannibalistic serial killer escape from the FBI and running away with him.

Freddie Lounds got a lot of traction and made a lot of cash with that story.

He almost puts the plate back, but quells the urge. He almost puts it back again when he sees the price tag for fifty dollars. Really?

He looks it up quickly on his phone and is slightly amazed to find that the going price for the thing is closer to $300. $50 is practically a steal, apparently. Well, damn. The poor kid in him is always up for a good deal. Maybe he’ll sell it on ebay.

In his basket, he rearranges everything so that it is appropriately cushioned as he adds the plate to the collection. The hat and scarf have really come in handy, the hat fitting over the painting perfectly and the scarf wrapping around the plate.

Once everything is situated, he stands from his crouch next to the basket, picks the thing up, and moves on.

Will has learned a lot these past years, so many unimportant details about _things_. It’s a hobby. Safe, anthropological, fascinating enough to keep him from going completely mad. He can guess at the histories of these artifacts, make use of his imagination without inviting unfamiliar murderers into his head. 

He picks up an American Brilliant Cut Glass bowl, every edge almost pristine but with heavy wear marks on its base and a few obviously recent chips. He imagines a woman living during the 1920s, 30s, 40s. First bringing the bowl out shiny and new during glitzy displays of 1920s excess and wealth, sparkling on her table. Later during the Great Depression, one of the Nice Things she still holds on to, being so very careful to keep it undamaged because they can’t afford anything like it anymore. Bringing it out again during World War II, perhaps a Thanksgiving spent hoping a son gone to war is warm and safe, wherever he is. A careful, conscientious woman, using the same bowl for decades without allowing the crisply cut edges to gain so much as a nick. One of her children inheriting it and treating mom’s bowl with care and respect. One of her grandchildren or great-grandchildren not knowing or caring about its significance, throwing it into a box carelessly, and donating or selling it away. 

He has so many stories in his head these days, and most of them aren’t ugly. Just human.

What originally attracted Will to antique malls, thrift stores, and estate sales is that they’re the only place he can find Hannibal really interesting, somewhat unique gifts. The man is impossible to shop for, if you want to put actual thought into it. There are only so many bottles of wine or pairs of cuff-links you can bring home before it gets boring. He’s so particular about his clothes and kitchen tools, and Will has never been happy buying from a wish list. 

Plus, Will can’t ever forget the little bit of sadness in Hannibal’s eyes the one time Will surprised him with a gift of fresh lungs from a kill Will hadn't invited him to. Thankfully, he’s had more luck presenting the other man with a business card and a story illustrating what an asshole the person named is. That’s also a lot less work. 

_(These days? Murder is their thing, that they like to do together, to strengthen their bond. Will going off on his own is a little bit like a betrayal, which is always a touchy subject for Hannibal. Will doesn’t mind when Hannibal goes off on his own, though, especially if the man shares with him the “who and where” of the situation. Sometimes Will just isn’t in the mood, or empathizes too much with the target, and encourages Hannibal to go on without him. Their arrangement pretty much works for them.)_

Will is a little bit disappointed that he hasn’t found anything truly special for Hannibal as he makes his way back to the front of the mall and the sales counter. He contemplates driving the forty-something minutes to the next antique mall. Or perhaps taking a gamble on the St. Vincent de Paul down the street.

But then he sees it.

A tiny something catches his eye before he reaches the front, something that he missed the first time he walked by the booth. 

It’s in a grouping of porcelain figurines. They look like pre-war Dresden. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finest, intricately painted, tiny delicate hands still intact after so many years. They’re lovely, but that’s not what he’s after. What brought him to this shelf is less than half their size, and a truly unique work of art. 

A little Japanese netsuke. A beauty. Finely carved ivory, Elephant judging from the crosshatched lines visible in the smooth material. It is signed by the artist. The carved animals are breathtaking in their detail, curled around each other like intimate friends. 

A snake.

And a mongoose. 

Their beginning. 

_I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup, the finest china used for only special guests._

_How do you see me?_

_The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by._

Hannibal is going to cry when Will gives this to him. Will is just allergic to the dust in this place.

He’s pretty sure buying elephant ivory violates some kind of treaty, but he’s not exactly a law-abiding citizen, so he shrugs it off. The elephant whose tusk birthed this netsuke is long, long dead. 

This treasure, he does not place in his basket. He holds it in his hand, rubbing it with his thumb and letting it soak up his warmth as he finally proceeds to the sales counter. He does not check the price. If he doesn’t have enough for it, he’ll have them hold it until he gets the amount needed and returns.

He barely notices the sales clerk, a young woman he’s met here before. She probably asks if he’s found some treasures but he can’t concentrate right now. He only nods and smiles slightly at whatever she says, hands over some cash when he sees the total come up on the register. His hands tremble only a little, and not from the amount. 

She wraps the ugly plate in tissue paper before putting it into the bag and pushing it towards him. He’d forgotten to put the plate back after finding the carving. That’s okay. He picks the bag up with a tense smile, holding back his roiling emotions, and heads towards the doors. Retrieves his hat and gloves from his pockets without thought and slides them on. Winds the scarf around his neck. Buttons his coat.

Once he makes it to the car with his purchases and starts it to begin warming up, he sits in the driver’s seat for a minute and just breathes. His breath is a cloud of white vapor between his face and the windshield. Occasionally, he feels like vapor. The shattered bits of him uncountable, suspended in the air, none of his pieces quite touching. And when they do finally touch, when they condense together, they drip.

He and Hannibal have made a lot of memories together. Many good. Especially since the Dragon, so many good memories. 

Also, many bad. Most before the Dragon, but some since.

The netsuke brings both kinds to the forefront of his mind, and even ignoring the streams of memories he’d fallen into before finding the carving, it’s a little bit overwhelming. He needs a minute to tuck his memories back into his mindscape, release them into the stream, plant them on the banks. 

He loves Hannibal. He may not say it often, but he does. He would never have become an accomplice in his escape otherwise. He certainly wouldn’t have gone on the run with him. Love and codependency are the essential building blocks of their relationship as it exists now. Their shared hobbies are incidental.

Will also knows that Hannibal is a curious asshole who does many things more or less solely to see what happens. 

_What happens if I call and warn the killer before Will gets there?_

_What happens if I let Will’s brain continue to burn?_

_What happens if I let him think he killed and ate the girl I have been referring to as our daughter?_

And that was just the beginning. 

It makes being part of his life difficult, sometimes. 

—

Will enters their cabin, swept in on a chill breeze, snow flurries swirling in his wake. The cabin is built of logs felled from the property on which the cabin stands. The felling and construction were coordinated by Chiyoh while Will and Hannibal were in South America. The property is, naturally, not connected to their real identities. Not much of anything is. 

He sighs in relief as the heat from the wood burning cast iron stove hits him. It’s their primary source of warmth out here, off the grid as they are. 

Hannibal must be preparing dinner. The mouthwatering scent of something savory is thick in the air. 

He hears the dogs before he sees them, the nails on their paws click-clacking against the wooden floors. They were no doubt waiting for Hannibal to drop something as he cooked. Or more likely, be tossed some scraps as rewards for staying out of the way. 

Pilgrim is a long-furred brindle mutt of some kind they had liberated from an abusive owner shortly after arriving in Canada. The abusive owner is still alive, but on their “later” list, to be taken care of once the dog’s disappearance will no longer appear to have any sort of significance in a missing persons or homicide case.

Lucy, a slim girl built for racing, has short reddish fur and in this kind of weather always wears a cozy sweater. She has been with them since their time in South America. Lucy did very well on their sailboat journey from those southern waters all the way up to the sleepy, frozen dock in Canada. 

Will still misses his old pack. He imagines that some have passed away from old age by now. Retrieving the ones who are left would be cruel to them and to Molly, even if he would love to see them again. 

Pilgrim and Lucy are very good dogs. Lucy had been a street dog and took a while to get used to living with them and being taken care of. Pilgrim had been scared and cautious, timid and afraid of receiving further abuse. Will had patiently worked to earn their trust.

He gives both praise and ear scritches as they sniff at his pants, coat, and shopping bag, tails wagging. They’re always interested in the new scents he brings home with him.

Will is largely content with the family and life he has built with Hannibal. 

“Will?” Hannibal calls from down the hall.

“In a minute,” Will promises. Clicking his tongue at the dogs to sit, he peels off gloves, wool coat, down vest, rabbit fur ushanka, and cashmere scarf - most of them gifts from Hannibal. Hannibal’s longest-running personal mission is the reformation of Will’s wardrobe. The shelves and hooks behind the entryway bench get a lot of use, all of these accessories. 

Outerwear is replaced by a cozy red and blue plaid housecoat. The insulated boots he pulls off are replaced with shearling slippers. He can wear plaid around the house without fear of someone else seeing him looking too much like _himself_. They don’t have visitors. Not living ones.

The dogs follow as he deposits his new pole with his fishing gear in the hallway, and moves on to the bedroom to tuck the rest of his finds into the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. He has no illusions that Hannibal will not know they are there, but the man knows what time of year it is. If he spoils the surprise for himself, he has only himself to blame.

Rubbing his hands together, he makes his way into the welcoming kitchen. The stove and oven have warmed the room, and a crusty loaf of fresh bread is cooling on a rack on the counter top. He smells tomatoes, onions, garlic, and rosemary.

“Smells great,” he says, catching Hannibal’s lips for a quick kiss before leaning back against a cabinet. “What are you making?”

“Something simple,” Hannibal says with a smirk. “Let’s call it a _Barista Cacciatore_.”

Will chuckles. “Paired with the beer you’ve been brewing with coffee beans?”

—

Christmas eve has arrived, their living room brightened by twinkling red and white lights wrapped around a small evergreen cut from the forest surrounding their home. Gifts are artfully arranged on a wool blanket wrapped around the tree’s base. 

Will’s gifts to Hannibal are wrapped in butcher paper and twine. 

Hannibal’s gifts to Will are wrapped in Chiyogami, topped with origami dog, fish, and fox. As ever, everything Hannibal creates is a work of art. 

The tree is hung with more origami, and with brightly decorated fishing lures. Christmas ornaments are best created by their own hands each year. The handicrafts mean more than cold glass orbs.

The dogs cuddle in one of their beds, sleepy and warm, far enough from the wood stove to avoid overheating. 

Will and Hannibal are nesting on the soft leather sofa, facing the stove, also enjoying the heat. Flickering flames are visible through the view window, and Will watches as they reflect in Hannibal’s eyes. 

Hannibal’s head is cradled safely in Will’s lap, and Will runs clever fingers through the ashy hair. Much more gray than when they first met. And a fair bit longer. Long enough for the man to pull it back in a little tail sometimes, to get it out of his face while he cooks. Or partakes in other messy activities. 

“Will,” Hannibal says.

“Hmm?”

“Would you like to exchange gifts tonight or in the morning?” The words are soft, relaxed. Nobody sees Hannibal like this except Will. 

“Tonight,” Will says, smiling. “I’d like our morning to be uninterrupted. Wouldn’t you?”

Hannibal makes a thoughtful sound. “Yes. We don't leave for the opera until afternoon.” Quietly humming something vaguely familiar sounding, he pulls his head from Will’s lap and lowers his feet to the floor. He retrieves a striped fleece throw blanket from the back of the couch to tuck over Will’s lap. Will smiles, stopping one of Hannibal’s retreating hands and bringing it to his lips. 

“The smallest package from me is last,” he says, lips moving against Hannibal’s fingers. 

Hannibal wraps his other hand around the side of Will’s head and leans in, kissing Will’s forehead in acknowledgment. 

Instead of retrieving just two of the gifts, Hannibal uses the blanket underneath the tree to lift all of them and deposit them on the far end of the couch, where Hannibal’s feet had previously rested. Will is charmed. Hannibal, for all of his appreciation for aesthetics, is capable of being a practical man. Sometimes. When he isn’t being a drama queen.

The other man tucks himself against Will’s side, and passes a package over, then takes one for himself. 

Will has been given the largest of Hannibal’s beautifully decorated gifts, an origami fox perched on top of paper whose pattern reminds Will of clouds on a starry night. He carefully undoes the closures at each end, knowing that he will be able to convince Hannibal to make him more origami from the paper later. The box underneath is lightweight, and he lifts the lid.

An emerald green sweater is nestled within. When he touches it, it is wonderfully soft and squishy. Exactly how he prefers his sweaters. He smiles, looks over to Hannibal who has been watching him, and leans in for a sweet kiss. 

“You just want to pet me while I wear it,” he says.

“Of course,” Hannibal mutters, before unwrapping his own gift. There’s no need for him to be careful of the butcher paper, but it’s in his nature and Will doesn’t say anything. 

Hannibal had chosen the medium size package for himself, and as he uncovers the painting of the mermaid on the rocky shore, he looks enchanted. 

“It’s lovely, Will.” He lifts Will’s nearest hand to his mouth for a kiss.

Will sets the sweater on the floor next to his feet, and Hannibal carefully props the painting against a lamp on the side table. 

The next gift Will receives is the medium size one, with the origami fish. Hannibal lifts the largest package into his lap. Will’s lips twitch, and Hannibal catches it. He looks curious.

Their gifts are carefully unwrapped once again. Will is a little bit in awe of his. When he opens the ancient-looking wooden box, a variety of bird feathers are revealed. Partitions are labeled in old, browned fountain pen ink, spelling names like Spangled Cotinga, Resplendent Quetzal, Red-ruffed Fruitcrow, and King Bird-of-paradise. Stunning colors. Greens, reds, blues, yellows. Stripes, spots, iridescence…these definitely violate a treaty or two. Still, they’re gorgeous, and too old to feel guilty about. 

When he looks up, Hannibal is watching him with humor and fondness. Will is beaming. 

“This is quite a plate,” Hannibal says, casually, gesturing to where it rests in his lap. 

“Uh huh,” Will agrees. His happiness for the bird feathers means he can’t hold back his humor regarding the plate. “Saw it and thought of you,” he chuckles. 

“Indeed,” Hannibal agrees, his eyes crinkled in amusement. “It’s so garish that I find it charming. I quite like it,” he says, watching for Will’s reaction. 

Will throws his head back and laughs. “I knew it!”

“It’s meant to be decorative, but I believe I will use it to serve baked goods.” 

Will continues to laugh. The ugly plate is here to stay.

Once Will calms, once he has placed the old box next to the sweater and Hannibal has laid the plate next to the little painting, they both hold their final gifts. 

Hannibal nods at Will, indicating that he should go first. 

This is the package with the origami dog, the paper a riotous multicolor swirling pattern. Hannibal watches as Will unwraps a heavy paperboard box and lifts the lid to reveal soft blue tissue paper. He carefully uncovers the tiny contents. 

Little carved dogs. Nine of them.

Each resembles one of Will’s old pack, plus Lucy and Pilgrim.

He can’t help it. His eyes fill, and when he closes them to kiss Hannibal, a few tears fall down his cheeks. 

“I knew you’d been whittling, but I didn’t…”

“It took some practice, but I believe I finally caught their likenesses properly.” Hannibal catches Will’s tears on his thumb and tastes them, studying Will’s face. He loves to make Will cry.

“Of course you did,” Will says roughly, and presses his lips to the other man’s jaw. “Now you.” He safely nests the dogs back into their box and places them with the other gifts, before focusing back on Hannibal. 

Hannibal unwraps the smallest package, and removes the lid of the little box to reveal the cream colored carving resting on a bed of shredded paper. He carefully lifts the netsuke and studies it. 

The look of dawning comprehension, followed by joy, is something Will memorizes and tucks inside to keep forever. 

“Mongoose,” Hannibal whispers.

“And snake,” Will agrees, voice soft. 

Hannibal’s eyes are watering now. “They look content, do they not?”

“They do. Very.” Hannibal reads Will’s sincerity. 

Hannibal clutches the netsuke in his hand as he rises to one knee and swings his other leg over Will’s lap, the box of shredded paper tumbling to the floor. Will loops his arms around the other's waist. He can feel his own heart beating. 

Settled, Hannibal buries his nose in the crook of Will’s neck and inhales deeply, pausing there for a moment. Will knows the man loves his scent. 

The open-mouth suck-kiss over his pulse point that follows, has Will’s baser urges roaring in approval. 

Will gasps and clutches at Hannibal’s muscular back as the other covers his neck in sharp, biting kisses. He sucks Will’s ear lobe between scalding lips, bruising the delicate flesh with unforgiving teeth. 

“Fuck. Hannibal,” he pleads.

Hannibal sucks, bites, kisses his way along his jaw, to his mouth. He cradles Will’s face with his hands, the netsuke hard against the skin of Will’s cheek, grown warm from body heat. Will bucks up, already trying to find friction. 

Their mouths meet, hot breath and tongues intertwining. Will bites Hannibal’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and the man gasps and finally presses himself down against Will. 

“Let us go to our bed, my beautiful mongoose,” Hannibal breathes into Will’s ear. 

Will’s huff is almost indistinguishable from his already heavy breathing. “Does that make you my lovely snake? Which snakes live in Japan?”

Hannibal hums, nuzzling back into Will’s neck, his breath hot. “Mamushi is the most dangerous. Many do not recognize that they have been bitten, until their muscles swell and become paralyzed, and their flesh begins to liquefy.” He punctuates this statement with a sharp bite.

Hannibal pulls back to look into Will’s amused eyes.

“Even so,” he says. “Fewer than a dozen die of their bite each year.”

Will shapes the words in his mouth. “Mamushi,” he pronounces with satisfaction. “The Mongoose and the Mamushi. Content.” _But not quite happy_ , a voice whispers inside his mind. 

_Contentedness is more than many have_ , he thinks in response. 

_But is it enough?_

_Yes. It has to be. There’s no going back._

Hannibal smiles with lips and eyes, leaning in to touch Will’s mouth with his own. 

Will chases his lips as he pulls back once again. Hannibal shakes his head. “Bed, my love.”

Will groans, fondly exasperated. “Get off me then, you Neanderthal. I can’t move us both.”

Hannibal laughs under his breath as he pushes himself back and stands. “You will not be able to move even yourself in the morning if we continue this here. I sincerely doubt that our backs will thank us. Or our knees.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Will says with good humor. “We’ve gotten old. I know.”

Hannibal holds a hand out for Will and pulls the smaller man to his feet, into his arms. His chest is solid against Will’s. Hannibal speaks his next words into Will’s messy curls, now streaked with gray. 

“Before we met, I never hoped to find someone I would gladly grow old with.”

“Hannibal,” Will gasps in faux-horror. “You can’t keep saying these things before we get to the bedroom. It’s indecent.”

Will steps back far enough to kiss the smile off of Hannibal’s mouth, then grasps his arm and drags him into the hallway towards their bed.

They keep each other very warm on this very cold night. 


End file.
